of dreams and realities
by talk of michelangelo
Summary: in her dream, it goes something like this.


episode ten spoilers ahead!

last night instead of studying for my english final, i caught up on knk and promptly wished i did not after bawling through all of the tenth episode. today instead of studying for my english final, i did this and am unsure of how i feel about it. in short, this series is ruining my life.

_8 december 2013_

* * *

She dreams of it kind of like this:

They would be in the club room and the sun would be half-way to the horizon. After school, probably. Mitsuki would have left early to escape her overbearing older brother, and Hiromi would be hot on her trail. The school bell would have rung half an hour ago, and the building would've just about cleared out.

She would be reading volume two of the Gardening Encyclopedia and he would be studying the sleek curve of her frames, the bright red that should clash terribly with her pink cardigan and her strawberry hair but doesn't. She would look up and their eyes would meet, and she'd make a scene about him being embarrassing and shameless and _unpleasant_, and he would only laugh and say something about her glasses.

Maybe they would sit there a little more, him across from her, idly kicking at her shoes until the toes had been scuffed. She would finally sigh and firmly shut the book, pushing it to the side and making a home of her hands for her face to perch on.

They would talk about food. She would complain about rent and he would make another remark that would offend her just so, just enough to have her cheeks light up all rosy, her eyes brighten a little too much to newly-polished gold.

He would laugh and she would observe, as quickly as she could soak it all in, impress it on the back of her mind like the white outline of a light that burns into your vision, the mirth behind his eyes as they shut, the white of his teeth, and the slight tremble of his shoulders. She would think he was as beautiful as he says she is. Beauty, just not bespectacled.

She would never tell him, though.

"Let's go home," he would say, and she would comply, maybe a little too eagerly. Her foot would catch on the table leg and she'd probably fall just as he turned to grab his school bag. (She debates having him catch her, but thinks of it as maybe too cheesy.) He'd jump at the sound of her hands hitting the floor, catching her fall so as not to land on her face.

And he would extend his hand, trying very hard to wipe the shit-eating grin off of his face, and she would take it, cheeks puffed and cherry pink.

"How unpleasant," she would say, and he would tug her up a little too hard (on purpose, of course, no matter how much he would deny it), and her hands would collide again onto a surface, but this time it would be his warm chest. They would stay still for a little while, her so stunned she wouldn't even be able to tell him how unpleasant this situation was. After a minute, his hand would press the small of her back into him, and she would finally regain her senses but quiet down just enough to see the adoration in his eyes, the softness of his mouth, the slight flush glowing on his cheeks. She would see herself reflected on the darkness of his eyes, wide-eyed and flushed as well.

And then he would bring his head down, eyes hooded, just slowly enough for her to back away if she wanted to. And maybe she would, instinctively, but her little hand would come up to grab onto his shirt front, and she wouldn't be able to tell if it was to anchor herself to him to ensure she wouldn't try to escape. She would tip her face up, try to angle it so that his nose wouldn't bump hers, and a little nervous breath would escape just before his mouth meets hers.

The sun would set by the time they stumble out of the building, hands very cautiously interlaced, cheeks flushed. She would avert her eyes very deliberately and he would grin easily, a hand coming up to tousle his hair. It would be warm. They would be happy.

* * *

It happens a little more like this:

They are sitting in the club room and the sun is half-way to the horizon. It is mid-summer. He isn't sure what dimension it is. Hiromi is out somewhere, and Mitsuki and Ai lounge in the pool.

She is not reading the Gardening Encyclopedia, but he is still studying her, looking past the frame of her glasses to her downcast eyes. He knows something is wrong by the trembling frown she wears, the way her hair almost droops with her upset mood, now that the sun is setting. She tells him they only have a little time left, that she is committing everything to memory.

The words she says shakes him to his very core, and he realizes now they are words he never wants to associate with her. Not _vanishing_, not _dream_, not _end_.

He does not say, "Let's go home," but she gets up anyways. She does not trip on the table leg. Instead, when she steps forward, she falls easily into him in a field of sunflowers. The sky is a patchwork quilt, made up of tangerines and deep purples and cherry pinks and navy blues.

He stares at her intently, watching the pink make its way to the surface of her cheeks. She takes a deep breath, uses his sleeve as leverage so that she can lean up and plant the tiniest, most uncertain kiss to ever exist on his lips. It tastes like regret and desperation and the last chance of a girl in love. (He thinks the last part might be too cheesy, but then she looks at him and there is shattered glass in her eyes and in her smile and he does not think it is cheesy at all.)

"Farewell," she says to him, and it is only now that he reacts, so violently he's not sure it is him controlling himself. His arms wrap around thousands of glittering shards of Mirai Kuriyama.

The sun has set by the time he blinks. He is alone, fingers stretched out towards a girl that does not exist anymore. It is warm.


End file.
